EVERYONE’S A COMEDIAN. At least it seems that way during open-mic night at San Francisco’s funky Brainwash cafe, where you can’t turn around without bumping into someone who is hungry for laughs. Yes, the joint is lousy with comedians: Short ones, stout ones, black, white, Asian, Native American, gay, straight, young, old … Just hand them a microphone, and they’re good to go.

They’ve come to participate in a weekly dose of crazy that is part freak show, part therapy session, part sparring match. And whether they realize it or not, they’re helping to fuel a comedy resurgence happening across the Bay Area.

Some of the participants are stand-up veterans out to test drive new material. Some are starry-eyed neophytes hoping to be the next Chris Rock or Jerry Seinfeld. Some simply want to vent their spleens.

But all of them are anxiously waiting to be summoned to the stage by jovial host Tony Sparks and present a five-minute set that will absolutely kill. It’s just a tiny stage, really, with a threadbare carpet and perched in the shadow of an ATM machine. But tonight, it holds the power and pull of a giant electromagnet.

“There’s nothing like the adrenaline rush you get with stand-up. It’s like a drug,” says Susan Maletta, a comedian with seven years experience who has driven from Los Gatos to participate in the open-mic insanity. “And we need the attention. There are a lot of people in this room who didn’t get enough hugs.”

That sentiment isn’t lost on Sparks, a veteran funny man affectionately known as the “Godfather of Bay Area comedy.” He’s determined to rev up the crowd.

“Gimme more, y’all! Gimme more!” he yells, pleading for applause before he sends in the clowns. “Cheer for them. Do not squash their dreams, people. They’re delicate to begin with.”

The Bay Area might never again experience a comedy boom like the one in the 1980s, when an array of clubs did brisk business and nurtured the careers of Robin Williams, Ellen DeGeneres, Dana Carvey and others. But after some down times, the region is again home to a vast and eclectic group of residents striving to make a name in stand-up.

“Two or three years ago, you could get up on stage relatively easy. And it was common to see just one or two newcomers a night,” says Drew Harmon, a comedian who contributes to the website sfstandup.com. “But now, stage time is more precious. There are tons of new people on the scene I don’t even know — and lots of weird, interesting acts.”

It’s a trend that thrills Sparks.

“I love what’s going on right now. The community is very active, alive and vibrant,” he says. “With these new faces comes a certain amount of freshness and passion. They’re too young to realize that the business is (screwed) up and cutthroat. They’re all exuberant and stuff.”

But why comedy? Why Now? Trenton Davis, a young stand-up who recently relocated to the Bay Area from Chicago, credits reality TV.

“Everyone wants to be famous these days,” he says. “Everyone wants to bask in the spotlight.”

Melissa Gans, manager of The Clubhouse, the comedy club at the San Francisco Comedy College, buys into that theory. But she also attributes much of the comedy revival to economic woes.

“A lot of people are out of work, or have been downsized, and don’t know what to do with themselves,” she says. “They’ve always wanted to try comedy, and this is the perfect time to chase their dream.”

It’s also a time when humor is desperately needed.

“Comedy has always done well when things get rough,” says Tom Sawyer, who books nationally known acts into San Francisco’s Cobb’s Comedy Club. “The country is in such a gigantic hole and you feel so helpless. … People want to laugh, to take their mind off things, if only for a little while.”

And though stand-up comedy might seem to be an unusual calling to those of us who would rather lose a limb than speak in public, there are clearly many folks who are brave — or crazy — enough to give it a shot. Gans says instructional classes at the S.F. Comedy College are packed, and The Clubhouse, which used to host one open-mic show a week, now is home to five.

Open-mic nights and showcases are also thriving elsewhere, including Tommy T’s in Pleasanton, where even 13-year-old Joey Bragg has caught the comedy bug.

“I’ve been doing stand-up for a year, and not to be a pompous ass, but I think I’m going to go far,” says the Union City resident, who has business cards and a website and is driven to gigs by his dad.

Bragg has won several open-mic competitions at Tommy T’s, but he knows comedy can also eat you alive.

“The first time I bombed,” he says, “I cried like a baby all the way home.”

The soaring interest in stand-up has practitioners scrambling to find stage time to sharpen their chops. Davis, for example, estimates he drives up to 400 miles a week to various clubs and cafes for little or no compensation. His goal? To earn the attention of a booking agent at a large club and eventually move up the ranks to headliner. Then, maybe, he can ditch his day job.

But it won’t come easy, if it comes at all. Beth Schumann, manager of Rooster T. Feathers Comedy Club in Sunnyvale, says it typically takes 10 years to acquire the polish, the unique persona, voice and business connections it takes to be a headliner.

“You have to really, really want it,” she says. “Most people just don’t have that kind of dedication.”

But the opportunities are there for those who do. As more stand-up hopefuls embrace the craft, more offbeat venues are jumping into the funny business. Castagnola’s Restaurant in San Francisco, for example, now offers stand-up five nights a week, and a weekly comedy showcase hosted by Mark Pitta at the Throckmorton Theatre in Mill Valley is winning raves.

All this interest in comedy pleases Bob Ayers, who owned a comedy club in the ’70s and once managed Carvey. “Stand-up is a beautiful art form — right up there with jazz, when it’s performed by someone with vision and voice,” he says.

On the other hand, Ayers fears a case of oversaturation.

“I do worry about some of these small places booking comics without 30 minutes of good material,” he says. “Bad comedy can turn people off in a hurry. It’s like going out to eat. There are a zillion restaurants, but you have to really search if you want a good meal.”

Moreover, sustaining standout local comedy can be a challenge. That’s because once a homegrown comedian does build some buzz, he or she usually bolts to Los Angeles or New York.

Says Harmon, “The saying in the Bay Area is, ‘You come here to get good. You leave to get paid.'”

And if L.A. or New York doesn’t lure them away, many comedians will eventually surrender to the brutalities of the business — endless traveling, meager pay, hecklers and rejection.

“I’d say the attrition rate is around six months,” says Harmon. “If you’ve made it past six months, you’re either addicted to it, or self-destructive, and you want to do it forever.”

No rules

At the Brainwash, Sparks says, the only rule is that there are no rules. “You can say anything you want,” he insists. “You just have to get off in five minutes.”

Unfortunately, many of the 47 people who signed up to perform don’t have enough material to fill even two minutes. Some awkwardly read from their notes. Some sputter and ramble. Some are just deadly unfunny.

At one point, an elderly woman in a cheerleader outfit who seems to be channeling Phyllis Diller, makes her open-mic debut and immediately provokes winces all around. It’s like a torturous audition on “American Idol” without Simon Cowell around to stop it.

The train wrecks make you deeply appreciate when a polished, freewheeling comedian such as Oakland’s Kaseem Bentley takes the stage. Armed with a sharp wit and plenty of self-assurance, the young Don Rickles-like jester gleefully pokes fun at audience members, most of whom eat it up.

At one point, he eyes a man in the corner wearing a knit cap and sunglasses.

“You look like a rapist at a ski lodge,” he quips. Watching from behind the bar, Sparks breaks into a big smile as laughter fills the room.

After his set, fellow comedians swarm around Bentley to shake his hand. He’s also awarded with a cup of coffee on the house. But is that all there is?

A four-year stand-up veteran, Bentley is considered to be a bright up-and-comer. Still, he admits he’s having a tough time paying his cell-phone bill and that his career could be going better with more promotional oomph.

“I don’t have a press kit or even a website. ” he says shaking his head. “I’ve got to get it together. In this business, you need a plan or you’ll quickly end up being the quarterback working at the gas station.”

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